


a shrike to your sharp and glorious thorn

by swimthewholeriogrande



Series: Call This Living [7]
Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Flashbacks, Hurt/Comfort, Late Night Conversations, Night Terrors, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-09
Updated: 2019-02-09
Packaged: 2019-10-24 16:04:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17707376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swimthewholeriogrande/pseuds/swimthewholeriogrande
Summary: She's so tired. She can't do this anymore.





	a shrike to your sharp and glorious thorn

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Shrike by Hozier  
> So! I wanted to do a little more from Amy's perspective and show how she's also finding it all difficult to handle. I'd put this at about two months after Jake comes home, so early days in recovery, making it that much harder. Hope you enjoy*

Neither of them are sleeping too great, these days. 

Amy knows it's not his fault and God, it's worth it, anything's worth having him home and safe. But she's so tired that it's buzzing in her ears with every breath. Every night she loses him all over again to whatever's consuming him that particular hour, whatever lightning strikes, and she cannot sleep a wink. 

The fifth night that week without a full night's rest, and she's been dozing for maybe an hour when she's woken by a whimper, a small, childish, frightened sound. She's groggy and sleep-heavy, fumbling for the bedside lamp, when the whimper draws out into a keen. She flicks it on, and sees Jake's face screwed up and crumpled. 

The keen goes on and on, an unconscious terror. She wonders if it will subside and give them both relief, but just as she gets hopeful, Jake's chest arches off the bed and he _screams._

No matter how nightmares he suffers through, Amy will never get used to that sound. It will never stop threading through her own dreams. She shakes Jake's shoulder gently, calling his name in a voice still rough around the edges, and he writhes. 

"No! No!" he spits, his blunt nails suddenly raking down her forearm; in sharp contrast to the dull pain, his soft hair brushes her wrist. "Please, no, no, no!"

Every time she wonders what he sees, and then she has to stop, because it will make her mad. "Jake," she raises her voice, shakes a little harder, "Jake, babe, wake up."

"Fuck, please, please -" He's begging now, his fingers slipping, which means it's almost over. Amy sits up and pins his wrist when he suddenly lashes out at her face, still blind. 

"Jake!" she half-shouts, and he finally rolls to face her with a dry cracking sob, eyes opening at last. She can see reality seep back in, agonisingly slow. Her head pounds; she lightens her hold on his wrist.

Jake is holding himself back, still and wary. "I'm sorry." he croaks. She dismisses the apology in a motion as familiar as breathing. He buries his face into her neck as the faint scratches on her arm fade, barely there in the first place. 

"Oh, honey." she whispers, mostly to herself, as she shakes against her; he is a mosaic shattered. "What are we gonna do?"

-

"Thank you."

"No, Jake, don't - don't thank me. Of course I won't - I'm not gonna hit you, ever."

He's crammed into the corner beside the couch, tiny, his hands over his head. Amy kneels beside him and Jake sucks in a panicked breath, curling tighter.

"Thank you." His eyes flicked to hers then back to the floor. "Thank you. I'll do whatever you want. Thanks for not - I'll do what you want."

Amy's nails dig into her palms until blood beads in her fists. "I don't want you to do anything." she whispers. "Where are you, Jake?"

Jake rubs his nose into his shoulder, exposing his throat to her like a frightened animal. "I'm - I'm." he looks around. "I don't know."

"You're home." Amy reaches out and touches his knee and he lets her. "I know you think you're in the prison, but you're not. I'm not gonna hit you."

"Thank you -"

"Stop." Suddenly Amy is about to join Jake in the corner, and she can't see anyway out of it. They'll destroy each other. She stands up abruptly, ignoring the surprised whimper he lets out, and backs away.

"Jake, I need a minute." she blurts out. He's still cringing against the wall, staring at her, and it's like she doesn't know who she's looking at, and Amy doesn't want to see him in corners anymore.

"Amy?" Jake's face is confused and glazed, beginning to wake up from the deep sleep of his imagination. His eyes look like TV static.

She leaves.

-

Rosa catches her in Shaws. Amy's two G&Ts deep, but when she greets Rosa her voice is still quiet. She's never felt more sober.

Rosa sits down across from her and fixes her with a flat, neutral stare. She doesn't speak for a moment, and Amy shifts in her seat and eventually asks, "Is he okay?" 

Rosa sighs, a short hard sound. "He's alright." she grunts. "He called Charles after you left."

Guilt and self-revulsion courses through her; Amy drops her head into her hands and feels tears sting in the corners of her eyes. "I fucked up." she moans. "I couldn't handle it, I just needed a minute -"

"Hey. _Hey_." Rosa raps on the desk sharply, making Amy look up. "Stop. It's okay."

Amy stares at her. "I left him. In the middle of a panic attack."

Rosa sighs again. "Yeah, that wasn't a great idea." She's brusque and brisk in her usual way. "But Amy, it's not your fault you're having trouble handling this. You look like shit."

"Oh, thanks."

"When was the last time you slept?" Rosa asks, and then shakes her head. "Don't answer that. What I mean is you can't expect yourself to be perfect at this. It's a lot for you."

Rosa leans in, and, in an unexpected act of kindness, takes Amy's hand; Amy clings to it like a drowning man. "Jake is fucked up right now." she says bluntly. "Hell, so am I. And yeah, it's important to be there for him, but if you get fucked up too that's not helpful for either of you."

Amy's hold on Rosa's hand is white-knuckled. "I don't know how to help him." she confesses, and it feels like a weight comes off her chest. "I love him, and he's hurting, and it sucks, and I don't know what to do."

Rosa's face softens. "First of all," she says, "go home, Amy."

-

Jake's waiting for her when Amy unlocks the door and sneaks in like a guilty teenager past curfew. He's on the sofa in his sweats and big NYPD hoody, his cosiest, cuddling clothes, and his face is soft and open when he looks at her. He's so far from the cringing creature he was that afternoon that it's like a kick in the gut.

"Hey, babe." His voice is quiet. He pats the couch, smiling in a sad, goofy kind of way. "Boyle said we should probably talk."

"So did Rosa." Amy sits down beside him and places a hand on his knee. "Jake. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have left."

He pulls her to his side, his arm strong around her waist, and she lets herself rest her head on his shoulder. "I know this is hard for you." Jake murmurs into her hair. "Clearly we need to set up some sort of - I don't know. We need to work something out so you don't have - you haven't slept, Ames."

"Neither have you."

"Well, then we both need something." Jake guides her to lay her head in his lap, and Amy shuts her eyes, feeling exhaustion sink through every bone. "Right now just sleep, Amy. Let me take care of you for once." - so she does.


End file.
